


I'm here to be used

by OfWilsonDreams



Series: Come at once if convenient [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Bottom John Watson, Dildos, Face-Fucking, Glass Dildos, Handcuffs, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Spreader Bars, Top Sherlock, shackles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfWilsonDreams/pseuds/OfWilsonDreams
Summary: John discovers that when Sherlock said he didn't do relationships, he didn't mean it quite the way John thought he did.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Come at once if convenient [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168784
Comments: 30
Kudos: 149





	1. "Maybe you could hang a tie over the doorknob if you're going to have sex"

John had planned to stay overnight with Clara after visiting Harry in rehab. He liked Clara. Clara liked him.

But, well before the last train left for Waterloo, he was dying to get home. The reek of Sherlock's experiments and the dusty smell of his own upstairs bedroom, the savoury baking aroma of Speedy's oven, and the routine of making two mugs of tea in the morning for Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson was in, TV on, watching something loud and American. The door to 221b was shut, but violin music was leaking under it, so Sherlock was probably in his room, thinking aloud, and John could avoid a string of deductions about Harry, Clara, and John's relationship with them both - if he was quiet.

John went quietly up the stairs, skipping the one that creaked, quietly opened the door, and quietly stopped in the doorway, mouth gaping.

There was a naked man trussed up in the centre of the room. He was immobilised on his knees with his hands secured behind his back and Sherlock, fully-clothed, was standing over him with his groin very close to the man's head, his face lifted as though in prayer - 

The naked man suddenly, evidently, realised someone was there. He jerked his head back and said, in a panicked, choking voice "Jelly bean!"

"Shit," Sherlock said, eloquently.

"Sorry!" John said, inadequately, and ran for the stairs to his room. "Sorry," he threw over his shoulder, and climbed the stairs, muttering to the bannister "Sorry, sorry, sorry - " 

He sat down on his bed, dropped the shopping on the floor, and put his face in his hands. When the naked man jerked his head back Sherlock had been standing there fully-clothed except for his dick, which was long, thick, red, dripping wet from being sucked down the man's throat, and very, very erect. 

After some time John could not measure, Sherlock called "John?"

John swallowed. He didn't trust his voice to answer.

"John," Sherlock said, nearer. He'd been at the foot of the stairs, he'd evidently gone up a few steps. "Are you all right? Answer me."

"Yes," John called back. 

"Can you stay there for the next half hour?" Sherlock said. 

Oh, that wouldn't be a problem. John swallowed. "Yes," he said again. 

Sherlock was right outside the bedroom door. John envisaged him standing there, erection still jutting out, walking in, demanding John open his mouth and take care of it - 

"I can make you a cup of tea if you like," Sherlock said. "But it would help if you could stay there for half an hour."

"Don't come in!" John said hastily.

There was a pause. "All right," Sherlock said, sounding curious, and went away down the stairs. 

John had assumed Sherlock was some variety of asexual. Or celibate. He didn't do relationships. John had got the impression he didn't do sex. John rubbed his face, trying to cure the blush and the tendency to gape. Well, he'd been wrong about that.

He didn't have an eidetic memory, but he had a pretty good grasp of visual detail, and he could see that scene like he was looking at a photograph. The man had been youngish - younger than Sherlock - blond, pretty fit. He'd been tied with meticulous care in a bondage harness made out of rope. There was something sticking out between his buttocks - probably the end of a butt plug. And Sherlock Holmes had a mouthwateringly gigantic cock. 

John picked up a book, and tried to read it. He didn't get very far. He didn't hear anything more from downstairs, until - half an hour later - the violin music switched off. 

Sherlock called again "John? Do you want to come downstairs?" There was not a hint of double-entendre in his voice. He sounded, if anything, quite concerned. 

The shopping bag on the floor had a couple of pints of milk that ought to go in the fridge, and a loaf of bread. And besides, he really couldn't stay in his room for the rest of his life. 

"I'm sorry," John said. "Look, it's fine - maybe you could hang a tie over the doorknob if you're going to have sex - "

"Why would I want to do that?" Sherlock sounded surprised. "I made you tea," he added. "We're out of milk."

"I bought some," John said. Sherlock making tea was right up there with odd like Sherlock tying a man up and getting a blow-job in the middle of their sitting room.

He put the milk in the fridge, deciding not to raise the issue of the severed hand in the salad crisper - that was a fight they could have tomorrow - and discovered that Sherlock had, indeed, made him tea. In his RAMC mug, which Sherlock had been categorically forbidden from using for experiments. John added milk. He took the tea over to his armchair, and sat down in it, and drank the tea. There was a pile of rope and a pair of scissors piled on the coffee table.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Your.., friend, is he OK?"

"He was startled," Sherlock said. "He's not an exhibitionist. I had assured him you were out of London til tomorrow. He was angry with me and terminated the scene. I sent him home in a taxi." Sherlock's phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. "He's home."

"He texted you to say he was safe?"

"No," Sherlock said, almost not quite smiling, "he texted me to say 'Piss off'. I doubt I'll see him again."

"Oh. I'm sorry," John said again. 

"No loss," Sherlock shrugged. He looked at John. "You don't believe me. You think I'm being polite."

"Well - "

"I told you I don't do relationships," Sherlock said crisply. "I don't have a relationship with that man. Nor with any of them. They're just... useful."

John drank his tea. He wanted to say " _Any_ of them?" and he wanted to say " _Useful?_ " but a man who - however accidentally - walks in on his flatmate and interrupts a very nice blow job, does not have the moral high ground.

"You've got questions," Sherlock said. "Ask them."

"How many men do you...?" John paused, and as Sherlock went on looking at him with raised eyebrows, finally asked " - do you have that kind of... 'not-relationship'?"

"I currently know eight men who will service me as I prefer," Sherlock said. "Nine if I count the one who just left. I don't do relationships. When I want to orgasm, I want to have it happen on my terms with minimal inconvenience. I realised this some years ago. The Internet is a very useful resource for locating men who enjoy being used."

There was a pause. John drank his tea. He was trying very hard not to blush. 

"Would you like me to explain what I mean by that in more detail?" Sherlock asked.

John didn't nod. He managed a strangled "no", and Sherlock looked mildly surprised. 

"Are you sure?"

John stared off out of the window. It was a rainy night. He really ought to say "no," and then "thanks for the tea" and then "good night, Sherlock, see you in the morning".

"Yes," he said.

"I use various male-only dating sites. I sometimes post an ad, but I also look out for a specific kind of advertiser. What I am looking for is a man who enjoys extreme submission or humiliation, bondage, anal insertions, oral sex, and fucking. I like it if they also get off on a certain amount of pain, but I'm not a very dedicated sadist. Once located, we talk on the phone, then arrange to meet - I invariably use a hotel room for a first meeting, I find it lends reassurance to my target. We meet, I outline in detail what I intend to do to him, watching his reactions, and we arrange a safeword. He has the option of rope bondage or handcuffs and shackles. My preference is handcuffs, though I'm quite skilled at rope bondage. I have him choose the dildo I'll use to penetrate him. If he agrees to let me chain him up, of course the keys are left where he could, at need, use them to release himself. Can you guess why I prefer handcuffs, John?"

John managed to say, with hardly a quaver, "Quicker?"

"Good, John," Sherlock said, with an approving nod. "Obviously the first meeting has some timeconsuming but necessary arrangements to be made, I do prefer having an ongoing arrangement where we don't have to discuss things all the time. But when I want to orgasm, I want to do so as quickly and practically as possible. Once we've agreed the details, I tell him to strip. I have him kneel, his legs wide. Then I chain him up or tie him. Once he's immobilised - I want him completely helpless - I fill his anus with the dildo he himself chose. I watch his reaction to being penetrated. He can't move in the bondage, all he can do is squirm. I like the little grunting noises a man makes when a glass dildo is rubbing against his prostate. It's especially pleasant when he chooses a dildo just a little bigger than he thinks he can really endure, when he really wants me to stuff him full for my pleasure. 

"If he gets off on being verbally humiliated I'm quite willing to indulge him, though he needs to be very clear about his trigger words." Sherlock paused. He was staring at John very intently. His voice got darker, rougher. "Some men get off on being told they're greedy cocksluts. Or that they're squirming pigs just begging to be filled. Or they like being told they're whores." 

Each sentence ended crisply, like a blow shattering John's self-control. He tried to hold himself still. 

Sherlock paused. He added, lightly: "Others, of course, enjoy it when I don't speak to them at all once the scene starts. When I use them as I would a toy, an object there for my own pleasure."

Sherlock paused again. When he continued, his voice was his usual deep tones. "Once he's trussed up like a little parcel, and squirming on a big dildo, I position him so that I can use his mouth, and I fuck him orally until I come." 

He waited, watching John intently. "That's the object of the exercise achieved for me, but depending on our negotiations, I'll usually then make him come too. I like to do that without touching his cock. While I use one man who can come merely from his pleasure in being used by me orally while his anus is suitably plugged, and had another for a while who preferred me to send him away without allowing him to come, most men require a little more stimulation. If I have the time, and providing he chose a dildo large enough that I think he could take my erect penis in his ass, I may also use his ass until I come. If not, I will usually paddle him or spank him until his squirming and the movements of the dildo inside him excite him, force him to orgasm. If he takes too long to come, I shan't use him again. He ought to be so excited by my use of him that he comes quite quickly. If his performance was satisfactory, we make arrangements to meet again. To be useful to me, a man should be able to make himself available on a couple of hours notice at least one in every three times I contact him."

John was clutching the teacup as if it was a rescue float in a rough sea. He felt giddy and breathless. He croaked "Do they know about each other?" 

"I've never made an exclusive arrangement," Sherlock said. "Obviously we use condoms for anal sex and I have no interest in anything riskier. I'm regularly tested. I require the men to get regularly tested, too. I don't insist on condoms for oral sex if the man prefers otherwise, but I don't regard that as a major risk to myself, and I wouldn't have penetrative sex unless I was clean. I do enjoy filling a man's mouth with spunk and watching him struggle to swallow. What do you feel about that, John?"

John swallowed, involuntarily, hard. He drank his tea. It had got cold. He stared at Sherlock, speechless.

"I didn't intend you to find out what I do for sex," Sherlock said. He stood up and took the cup out of John's hands. "It really hadn't occurred to me that you might be this interested. I've orgasmed tonight and I don't need to be serviced again, but when I do..." Sherlock bent down and said, very close to John's ear, "Think of a safeword."

Sherlock was in his bedroom before John could manage to get to his feet. He staggered a bit as he went to the staircase to his room. He was hugely, almost scarily, turned on.


	2. negotiating a scene, Sherlock-style

The next day, after jerking off three times (once before he could go to sleep: once when he woke up, full of a dream of Sherlock: once in the shower, just because he could) something occurred to John.

_I outline in detail what I intend to do to him, watching his reactions, and we arrange a safeword._

Sherlock had told him that - with all of the details, some he might even have invented - because he wanted to watch John's reactions. Sherlock hadn't been teasing or trying to shock him: he'd been negotiating a scene, Sherlock-style.

He told Sherlock that, and Sherlock grinned at him, clearly very pleased. "Quite right."

John ate some toast, digesting this. Sherlock was wrapped up in his blue silk dressing-gown, having an exchange of texts with Dimmock, about a case he didn't even seem to need to leave the flat to solve. Sherlock went on grinning at him between texts, and occasionally drinking his coffee. John had never done BDSM, though obviously he'd been around people who did: he knew the rules well enough to see that though Sherlock kept referring to his relationships as his "using" the men, he clearly negotiated his way to a consensual, mutually pleasurable encounter.

The fantasy of being used by Sherlock was still clear in his mind (even if, after three wanks, he wasn't getting hard over it any more) but it would stay a fantasy. Even if Sherlock actually made it happen, it would still be a fantasy. 

John had never done BDSM as a dom or a sub. But he wanted to. With Sherlock.

"You're not a sociopath," he mentioned.

Sherlock was in the middle of typing a rather long text to Dimmock, and glanced up with the look that said "I don't care, and we're not going to discuss it."

"You're going to take that severed hand in the fridge back to Barts before I do any more shopping for food."

Sherlock pressed send, and looked up. "Fine, we'll order take-out," he said. "Chinese or Thai?" 

The phone beeped again. Sherlock looked down at the screen. "Yes, you idiot, I did mean you should arrest the gardener." He typed into his phone again, finishing with a caustic " _Dahlias_ , obviously," and looked up again. "Do you want Chinese or Thai. John?"

"I think it could get a bit weird, us having sex."

Sherlock stared at him, for a long moment. His phone beeped again, twice, but Sherlock didn't move to respond. At last he said, "You know my methods, John. Apply them."

Then, but not before, he started typing a reply to Dimmock. 

John sat still. He had realised last night - without Sherlock laying a hand on him - that he was turned on by the idea of being dominated, sexually, by a man. By a _Sherlock_. And part of him really, really wanted to try what it would be like for real. 

What if John didn't like it? (Then he just wouldn't do it again.)

What if Sherlock did a scene with him once and he was "performance unsatisfactory" and Sherlock never wanted to have him again? (Then they'd just never do it again.)

What if John liked it too much? (How much was too much?)

What if Sherlock kept asking when John had decided to stop?

Wait. No. he wouldn't. Sherlock had made that quite clear. He'd ask a maximum of three times. If each time was met by refusal, he'd stop asking. He didn't want to be exclusive, so John didn't need to worry about Sherlock getting jealous, and he liked to keep his sex life private, so John might not even know if Sherlock was doing someone else. Anyway, John had never really been the jealous type.

And John could go directly from discovering he had this turn-on to getting to experience it for real, no strings attached. 

"Sherlock," John said seriously, "I picked a safeword."

Sherlock stopped mid-text. He looked at John intently, clearly very pleased.

"Mycroft," John said.

Sherlock made a face and finished his text. "If you _must_ ," he said. "Have you ever used a dildo before?"

"Er - no."

"Want to borrow one of mine?"

"What? No," John said. He could not imagine anything less exciting than messing around with an object he probably wouldn't be able to get into his ass anyway.

Sherlock's gaze fixed on John's face and travelled down his body speculatively. "Interesting," he breathed. 

"And you need to take that severed hand back to Barts _today_."


	3. I don't like breaking my toys

Sherlock was pacing up and down 221b Baker Street muttering angrily to himself. He hadn't taken his coat off. He hadn't stopped pacing and muttering since they came back from the house in Stoke Newington where three people lay dead: two stabbed and one with a broken neck. They had died twelve hours apart but all lay in the same room. It looked as if the one with the broken neck had stabbed one of the victims, but it also looked as if the one with the broken neck had been the first to die.

John had made himself tea and toast with jam, and was sitting with his feet drawn up out of the way in his armchair. He expected at some point tonight he'd get dragged out again, and he wondered if he might catch a nap before that happened.

"John," Sherlock said. He stood still in the middle of the floor. 

"Hello? Yes?"

"What did you say your safeword was?"

John felt his skin crawl. He was, quite unexpectedly, actually terrified. It had been well over a week since that morning-after discussion, and Sherlock had said not a word about it. Somehow John had supposed that this kind of scene would start more... romantically? Well, less bluntly, anyway. 

Sherlock was staring at him impatiently. John knew all he had to say was "I can't remember" or even "no thanks", and Sherlock would call someone else. One of the eight other men who'd "service" him. 

John lifted his chin, consciously taking a deep breath. That wasn't going to happen. He'd committed to doing this at least once, he wasn't going to wriggle out of it just because it wasn't quite like he'd thought. "Mycroft," he said.

Sherlock laughed, a brief sharp bark. He walked across to the windows, and pulled down the blinds. He turned back to John. "Strip."

John started taking his clothes off. He felt very cold suddenly. Not in the least turned on. Was this even a good idea? He had two more chances if he backed out from this one. He folded his shirt, and placed it on the chair. Then his jeans. He was shivering now.

Sherlock came up behind him and enfolded him. His coat swung out and round John. His arms pressed John tightly and he rested his chin on top of John's head. He held him for only a moment, but the warmth seemed to stay with John. "Ropes or handcuffs?" he said into John's ear, and let go.

John turned to face him, drawing himself up as if to present arms. "Handcuffs," he said steadily.

"Good," Sherlock said, and produced a pair from his coat pocket, sliding the metal round John's wrists like a cold kiss. He pressed John down to his knees and bent to fish for something under the armchair. It clanked when he pulled it out. When the metal kissed round his ankles, John realised that the something stowed under his armchair - the one place in the room where he was not likely to see it - was a set of shackles. 

"These are my favourites," Sherlock said. "There's a spreader bar between your ankles. You have cuffs round your ankles and wrists, and the four cuffs are locked to each other and to the spreader bar. Try to get up, John."

He couldn't. He literally couldn't. John struggled and would have fallen in an undignified huddle, but Sherlock kept him upright and then swung him round til his chest was on the floor and his legs upright and his arms locked behind him.

Sherlock got up again. Where he had touched, John's skin felt bereft. When he came back, it was with an armful of dildos, some lube, and two keys embedded in a lump of blu-tac. He crouched down beside John, and showed him the keys, then stuck them to the top of the coffee-table. "The red key is for the handcuffs: do you need to confirm you can reach that and use it with your mouth, if necessary?"

"No." 

"Excellent. If you safeword," Sherlock sounded quite smug, "I can get these chains open in less than half a minute, I have tested this. Is this your first time in bondage, John?"

John hesitated.

Sherlock smirked at him. "I'll know if you lie."

"Yes," John said.

"And will this be your first time being penetrated by a dildo?"

"Yes."

"A virgin," Sherlock said clinically. "I'll expect you to let me know if you experience this as discomfort. Don't try to endure it bravely like a little soldier, John, you're just here to be used, and I don't like breaking my little toys. This won't be your first time being fucked in the mouth."

"No."

"I'm going to open your ass and mount you on one of these dildos."

There were five dildos on the table. They were glass, shining, and they all looked huge. John swallowed. He didn't want to pick the smallest one - though even that looked too big to go up his ass - but he was outright scared of the largest two. Even the middle one - "The red one," he said finally. Second-smallest. 

"Oh, very good," Sherlock said. He sounded genuinely pleased. He bent John over with a push. The spreader bar at his ankles was forcing his buttocks apart. Sherlock crouched down behind him, and John felt the cold wet brush of lubricant at his anus. John gritted his teeth. He had no intention of safewording out this time, but he felt awkward, cold, unaroused, and anticipated discomfort.

"John," Sherlock said, in his darkest, richest voice. "You're here for my pleasure. You're spread open, held, ready to be used. Feel your ass opening up to me. I want to see you well mounted on it, filling your hole, spitting you and making you grunt. Can you feel that? Very good, John, you're taking this very well, you were made for this, you were made to be used, weren't you? A little virgin, just a toy who hasn't been played with, something for me to pick up and use. You were made to be used, John, your asshole wants filling, you're squirming now as you feel me pushing into you, deep into you, stretching your hole, making you ready. Oh, you liked that, didn't you?" 

John's mouth was open. There was no pain, only an inexorable stretching feeling, but suddenly a flash of pure pleasure. He had made a noise.

"Yes, grunt for me, John, let me know you're enjoying this, you like being filled, don't you, toy soldier, little man, you like it when you're filled, you're stretching, you can take this, your ass was meant to be plugged, John, you're just a little toy who needed to be used - "

The stream of dark rich words went on, and John hardly knew what Sherlock was saying, except that every word added to his excitement, the thing is his ass pushing grunts of pleasure out of him. He could not move, he wanted to move, he didn't want Sherlock to stop.

Sherlock pulled him up to a kneeling position. He was still fully clothed, John realised dazedly. "Now open your mouth, John," the dark rich voice said, and John did, and he didn't see Sherlock opening his own clothes but the long dick was in his mouth, and John tasted condom and was disappointed, but Sherlock thrust and John opened his jaws wide and choked and sobbed and hardly breathed and felt Sherlock come, pulsing thick inside the condom. 

Sherlock withdrew from his mouth and John saw him neatly knot the condom. "Oh, you wanted my spunk?" Sherlock said. He sounded amused. "Greedy toy. Now I suppose you want to come?" Sherlock studied John a moment. He put his foot under John's cock and balls. touching the delicate, stretched skin between balls and asshole with the toe of his shoe.

"Come on, then, toy." 

John gasped, begging speechlessly, and Sherlock smiled.

"Don't waste my time, John. Come." He pushed upwards, gently, and John's cock rubbed against Sherlock's trouser-leg, his balls rubbing against Sherlock's shoe. "Come _now_."

John came. His come splattered Sherlock's leg, and Sherlock grinned. "Messy toy," he said, almost sounding fond, and took his foot away. 

A few minutes later, John was out of the chains. The handcuffs went back in Sherlock's pocket, the shackles were kicked back under the chair. By the time John had recovered enough from the stickiness of the afterglow, the dildos were out of sight (he later found the one Sherlock had used on him soaking in a bucket of bleach in the bathroom) and Sherlock had dropped a blanket from the couch over him.

Sherlock was pacing up and down, muttering to himself, when John sat up, still hot with afterglow, feeling both drained and relaxed. Sherlock was still fully dressed, still wearing his coat, and there was a splatter of cum-stain on one trouser leg. 

"John!" Sherlock said sharply. 

"Hello? Yes?"

"We have to go back to Stoke Newington. I need to find out if the green ladder is still under the shrubbery."

"What, now?"

"There's not a moment to lose."

"I need to get dressed," John said. "And - " he smirked - "you need to change those trousers."

Sherlock looked down at his trousered legs as if with surprise, and looked back at John. "Messy toy," he said, not sounding fond at all, and went in to his room. John pulled the blanket round himself and got up on shaky legs. He'd really liked all of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lost story. I started writing it about the same time as I was writing the Cages series, and I got to this chapter, and then I ran out of juice - same life events that stopped me finishing Cages - and then the file just slid to the bottom of the folder and I actually completely forgot about it. Happened to open it during the lockdown, and realized I could still see how to finish it. Hope you're enjoying it!


	4. "I've never made an exclusive arrangement"

Over the next few months, Sherlock asked John what his safeword was five times. Once, when John was planning to go out on a date with Penelope, he said no, and the other four times he said yes. 

He had a succession of casual dates with pleasant nurses and friendly doctors, and a couple of not-exactly-dates with mates from the army, and it was all fine, and his dates were interrupted no more than usual by texts from Sherlock, and he enjoyed running around London solving crimes with Sherlock, and it was all fine.

Except that now John knew, he was learning to spot the signs of Sherlock in a hair-trigger mood, both before and after. He didn't suppose he could be sure of every time - but Sherlock laid was fractionally, just noticeably, different from Sherlock in any other mood. 

Except that those six scenes with Sherlock - bondage, dildos, Sherlock fucking his mouth til he came, and then seeing to it that John came too - were clear and burning in his memory. They were wank fodder - of course: but when John realised he was fantasising about being on the floor of 221b Baker Street with Sherlock standing over him in order to be able to come when he was having sex with a perfectly nice nurse, he felt - weird.

He went to stay the weekend with Clara and Harry. Harry wasn't drinking any more. John scrupulously returned on the day and train he had specified. He had no idea if Sherlock had used one of his men in Baker Street while he was away, and he knew he shouldn't ask. He kept wondering.

Sherlock was texting and stalking round the room. He had been texting Lestrade, information about a case, and John only realised the mood had changed when Sherlock snapped his phone into his pocket and went into his room, coming out with a different kind of look to him. Not only what he had stuffed into the pockets of his coat, spoiling the line of his jacket, but the look John had learned, hairtrigger Sherlock.

"My safeword is Mycroft," John said, quite distinctly.

"What?" Sherlock stared at him. "I didn't ask you."

"But you could. I'm right here."

Sherlock turned round, at the door, and for a long moment, gave John his full attention. 

"Interesting," he said. He glanced at his watch. "But I don't have time." He left the flat and John heard him running down the stairs. He was gone.

John stood still. He felt the weight of that full attention on him, like chains. Sherlock had taken rope with him, not handcuffs. That would take longer, and Sherlock would be impatient. Every scene with Sherlock had been almost exactly the same - even the things Sherlock said to him (which John wanked off to, afterwards, replaying the deep voice calling him a toy, telling him he was going to be plugged and used) were similar. And every time, John came. He needed less and less attention from Sherlock to come. 

Sherlock returned to the flat less than two hours later. John had been pacing restlessly. Every time he sat down, he realised he had started squirming his buttocks: walking around, his groin jerked with pleasure sometimes, he was hard inside his clothes. He wanted to be naked. He wanted to hear Sherlock's voice, dark and rich, calling him a toy.

Sherlock walked back in. He'd had sex. He was staring down at his phone, texting.

"I need to talk to you," John told Sherlock.

Sherlock was still texting. He spared John a glance. "Not now. I don't have time." 

But only a few minutes later, Sherlock sent off a last text, pushed his phone into his pocket, and said "Well?"

"Case solved?"

"Of course."

"Would have been faster if you'd just made use of me."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked down his nose at John. "Quite impossible."

"Why?"

"I had already made an arrangement to meet the individual I intended to use tonight. It wouldn't have been good practice to cancel unless it was an emergency. Generally I lose them," Sherlock added a little grumpily, "because they get irked when I have to cancel because it _is_ an emergency. I realised who committed the Battersea Trunk murder on my way _to_ the hotel last month, had to text him to let him know I'd be late, and then he sent me a very peevish email informing me he'd waited all night and he was blocking me everywhere."

John fixed his eyes on Sherlock. "That's why you should use me," he said. "I don't get irked when you cancel at the last minute.

"Yes, you do."

"Okay, I'm used to it. Would have been more convenient with the Battersea Trunk murder," John added. He remembered that. "I was right there when you walked out, and I got your text when I was on my way to bed. Joined you half an hour later. You could have got yourself off and me off in the time you spent going to the hotel."

"Quite impossible," Sherlock repeated. "I don't do exclusive."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shook his head. "John," he said, and unexpectedly, it was in that deep-as-sex purring voice he used when he had John tied up. "Think this through. I enjoy using you. You enjoy being used by me. But as you must already have noticed, I have a very precise set of requirements to get me off. I don't need anything else. You'd get bored, John, and I'd lose a very convenient mouth."

John's hands were sliding behind his back, wanting the kiss of cuffs around them. "No," he said stupidly. "I wouldn't."

"Oh yes, you would," said Sherlock, still in that deep rough voice. "You're convenient, John. You're a good toy. I like using you. But I won't deal with a toy who wants me to use just him, because - " and his voice changed, lighter, more assessing - "I've been through this before. You're not a toy. You can think and feel, and you have your own needs. You won't accept that the way I use you is all I want from you. If you want only me, you'd want more from me. You can't have that. You want to be used by me right now, don't you?"

"Yes."

"But I don't want to use you. I've just come. I've solved a case. I don't need to use you. You'd expect more from me. You won't get it." Sherlock walked around John, very pointedly not touching him. "Now go to sleep, John."

Every time they'd had a scene, John had wondered at his ability - or Sherlock's - to move on from it. He had run down London streets after Sherlock on the trail of villains, and hardly thought about the scrape of clothing against the marks the cuffs and shackles had left on him, or that he could still taste Sherlock's semen in his mouth. But this was different. John went up the stairs to bed, unable to get out of his mind Sherlock saying, in the same voice he used to tell John he was stuffing his ass full of dildo, "I don't need to use you."

Over the next few weeks, John waited for Sherlock to ask him what his safeword was. He stopped going on dates. He stopped going out. He didn't want to miss the moment when Sherlock would ask him, and he could be used. 

He waited, and Sherlock didn't ask him. John wasn't even sure any more if he knew when Sherlock was going out to use other men. 

He was left with remembering "You're a good toy. I like using you. A convenient mouth."

John started going out on dates again. He concentrated on not remembering the things Sherlock did to him. He was generally able to achieve an erection, but his lack of enthusiasm must have been obvious: he never had second dates.

"John," Sherlock said to him once in the middle of the evening, weeks and weeks later, "Do you remember your safeword?"

John looked down at his laptop. He squirmed, involuntarily. He thought of being naked on the floor with the cuffs and shackles on, a dildo stuffing his ass, Sherlock's cock in his mouth. He was hard as a rock, and he saw Sherlock's eyes fixed on him, taking that in.

John closed down his laptop, and picked it and his dignity up. "No, Sherlock," he said. "Can't say I do." 

The next morning, John found a mug of tea waiting for him on the kitchen table, and toast, with jam, on a plate. They were both stone cold - John hadn't been able to go to sleep for hours, and had slept far past his usual time to wake - but it was a nice thought. 

Sherlock had gone out. 

He texted John an hour later, and John found himself caught up in the case and chasing after Sherlock, and it was as if it had never happened. Perhaps for Sherlock, John thought coldly, it had not. He supposed that if he only had the strength of mind to say "No" twice more, he already knew Sherlock wouldn't ask again after that.

It was a cracking good case, including a long run on foot after a bloke who had a revolver, which John finished with a very satisfying rugby-tackle pinning him until Sherlock could handcuff him. Dimmock caught up with them, and a constable shortly after that, and it was all over bar Sherlock explaining how he had solved it, in his best tone of voice, the one that made it sound like everyone else was stupid. John loved that voice. 

Sherlock didn't get his handcuffs back. Dimmock noted they were police issue, eyed Sherlock in a resigned kind of way, and said there wouldn't be any charges for misuse of police property.

"I have others," Sherlock told John, in the taxi, going home.

"What?" John was rubbing his bruised elbow and thinking happily about a long hot bath. Then it sank in, what Sherlock had just said, and he stared at Sherlock, feeling his flesh quiver, feeling his jaw drop open. 

He looked away from Sherlock. "I don't care," he said in stony voice.

"Yes, you do," Sherlock said.

John said nothing.

"I don't do relationships, you know that," Sherlock said. He sounded almost bewildered.

"Then you won't mind if we stop, will you?" John said.

" _You_ will, though," Sherlock deduced. He paused. "You _do_."

John said nothing. 

"I enjoy using you," Sherlock said.

" _Don't_ mind me, gents," the taxi driver said.

There was silence for the rest of the journey.

"I'm going to have a bath," John declared. He was heading for his room to collect his towel and clean clothes, when Sherlock said "John," in his deepest voice, and John turned.

"John," Sherlock said. "Do you remember what your safe word is?"

"You don't need to get laid," John said. "You've just solved a case."

"I don't do relationships," Sherlock said. "I'm married to my work."

"I know. You've said."

"What do you _want_ from me?"

"Can't you just bloody deduce it, genius?"

"Of course I can," Sherlock said. He sounded affronted. "I have. But what you want is... me. And you can't have me."

John walked over to the curtains and pulled them closed. Sherlock had always done that before. He bent down to the armchair and pulled out the shackles. He didn't know where Sherlock kept the dildos. That would have to change. Everything had suddenly snapped into place.

"I know I can't have you," John said. "I want _you_ to have _me_. I'm here to be used. I want you to make use of me."

"I won't be exclusive."

"I will," John said, with certainty. "I want to be _yours_. I want to know you can use me, however you want." He swallowed. "You said once you fuck your toys, if they're stretched enough on your dildos. I want you to stretch me like that. I want to be your toy."

"Strip," Sherlock said. 

John took his clothes off. Sherlock watched. Naked, John glanced down at the shackles. Sherlock came over to him. He was still fully dressed, and his coat still felt cold from the outside air. Sherlock wrapped him in his arms: not a hug. Sherlock had him immobilised. John squirmed, just to feel Sherlock's arms close more firmly about him. 

"I'll use you however I want," Sherlock said. "I'll stretch your ass til I can fuck you whenever I want. You'll come only when I tell you."

"All yours, Sherlock," John breathed. 

"Yes," Sherlock said, with almost frightening satisfaction. " _Mine._ "


	5. "Don't think for one second that I am one of them."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long, long, long delay, but I hope this is a satisfactory conclusion. (It took a long time for me to work it out exactly how it ended.) John and Sherlock take their relationship to the next level. This chapter begins some indefinite time after chapter four ends.

John sat down on the floor at Sherlock's feet. He liked sitting there. He could lean up against Sherlock's knees, and be hand-fed, and often Sherlock would decide he wanted to use John's mouth. 

Since he became Sherlock's toy, one of the things that had changed was foodtime. Sherlock had made a rule that John could only eat if Sherlock pushed the food into his mouth. Like all their rules, this was one John cheerfully broke all of the time when he was anywhere but 221b Baker Street.

He enjoyed kneeling at Sherlock's feet and nuzzling at his hands and begging for food, he loved squirming naked with a stretching dildo inside him begging Sherlock for treats, for a drink, to be allowed to swallow Sherlock's cock - but of course that wouldn't happen in front of anyone else. Sherlock enjoyed paddling John for breaking the rules, but as he had warned John, he wasn't a very dedicated sadist: John would have enjoyed being paddled more often, but Sherlock could always think of an infraction of the rules to beat him for when Sherlock felt like causing pain.

John made himself comfortable with his head on Sherlock's knees, easing position, feeling the dildo thick inside him. Sherlock had bought a harness for him, and with delightfully conscientious regularity, John was fastened bottom up in a kind of folding structure - surprisingly solid - that rendered him unable to move even an inch, and Sherlock inserted increasingly fatter, longer dildos in him, and told him gloatingly how stretched he was, how much more he was taking every day. When John's hole was unplugged, he felt empty and fluttering inside. He knew he couldn't wear a plug when they were out and about, but more and more he was thinking of when they came home, of when Sherlock told his toy to get into position for stuffing, and made him beg for each inch more.

"You understand I'll still have other people to use," Sherlock said to him.

John nodded. Sherlock said this frequently. Much more frequently, John noticed, than he actually disappeared to use other people. As John had thought, the sheer convenience of having John to use meant Sherlock used John.

"I'd like to brand you," Sherlock said. He was running his hand over John's shoulder as he spoke, and he spoke so soothingly and deeply that it was a moment before it sank in.

"What?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, abruptly. "It was just a thought."

"Mark your toy so everyone knows? I'm yours," John said.

"Of course you are," Sherlock said. "I like the idea of knowing there is a mark on you that no one will ever remove, that shows you're mine."

"How would you do it?" John asked, interested.

"Lock you in the breeding stand to immobilise you, and use a branding iron on you."

A very complicated, deep shudder happened inside John. 

"Yes," he said.

"What?" 

"Yes," John said. "Where?"

Sherlock's hand stopped moving. John glanced up. Sherlock was looking at him with deep astonishment. "You like the idea," he said. He wasn't using his sex voice. He was deducing. "You want me to mark you. To make yourself permanently, ineradicably mine. You're not a masochist, but you're even looking forward to the pain. Not bracing yourself for it. You _adore_ the idea of wearing a permanent mark that hurt you to get."

"Yes," John said. 

"You," Sherlock said, still looking astonished. 

"Me," John confirmed.

"I'll still use other people," Sherlock warned.

"Yes," John agreed, again. "I'm yours to use." He breathed, deeply, feeling that complicated, deep twist inside him, smelling Sherlock's arousal. "Do you want me to beg?"

"No," Sherlock said. He stood up. "I want to put you in the breeding stand."

Sherlock had never yet fucked John, though John thought he must have stretched John's hole wide enough to get his erect prick inside. His hands removing the dildo, unbuckling the harness, were brisk and almost impersonal. John knew his place was to bend and move and open as Sherlock's hands and voice instructed. Sherlock didn't speak to him at all, and when he did - when John was locked in the folding contraption, bent and spread so that he was completely available and completely helpless - his voice was light and brisk.

"Use the safeword, and we'll forget this ever happened," Sherlock said. "I'm going out shortly. I'll be back in two hours. You've been in the stand for longer than that before."

Had he? John had always fallen out of time whenever Sherlock locked him in the stand.

"If you need to get out of it sooner, you can use this alarm." He put something down just out of John's field of vision. "My name, and I'll come back as fast as I can. Mrs Hudson's name, and she'll come up from downstairs. Mycroft's name, and he'll likely be here faster than I will. Of course they'll then know what you are to me, but you're a fool if you think they haven't guessed. If you want out before I leave, just use the safeword. The alarm won't activate til I leave the room."

"Where are you going?" 

"I need to come," Sherlock said. "I'm going to make use of someone else. I think it might confuse your feelings if I made use of you now. Don't ask any more questions." He paused. "All right. _One_ more."

"Are you going to brand me?" John said immediately.

Sherlock moved round to stand in front of him. John could see the mouthwatering bulge in Sherlock's trousers, and if he squinted up, Sherlock's face from below, like being a dog. 

"You're not a dog," Sherlock said. "You're a pig, John. A naked pink pig. When I come back, I'm going to ask you again if you want to be branded. You can lie to me and say no and I never will. You can tell the truth - you're completely naked to me - and then sometime, when I lock you up in this stand, yes, I'll brand you. I won't tell you when, and I won't tell you where, but the mark will be covered by your clothes when you wear them. You won't wear clothes again til the brand's healed, and I'll give you painkillers to keep you docile, because it will hurt. And then you'll be my pig, as long as the mark is on your hide. You can have it removed, but you'll always know it was there. If you safeword before I leave, we may have this discussion again sometime, but if you say no and you're lying - I'll never brand you."

Sherlock sat down on the couch, used his laptop for about quarter of an hour - he didn't speak, and John was quite comfortable. Sherlock got up, put his coat on - John could hear that - and spread some newspapers underneath John, without speaking to him. He pinched John on one of his buttocks, almost fondly. "Have a good evening, pig," he said, and leaned over. "Remember - me, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft." There was a click. "The alarm is now on," Sherlock said, and left the room.

John was unable to reach the floating, timeless mood he had achieved in this stand every time before: he supposed that had been a function of the dildo he usually had plugged deep inside him. His bowels felt emopty. He wanted to be plugged. But if he had to call for help - if he did, it would be obvious enough what he was in here for. He was on obscene display, immobilised for clearly just one purpose: to be fucked. He couldn't move - and he couldn't disturb the stand. He was here til he called for help (and John saw, now Sherlock had pointed it out to him, that Mrs Hudson knew) or until Sherlock came back and released him. He wanted Sherlock to use his mouth, but Sherlock was using someone else's mouth. John could feel no resentment in him - he had told Sherlock the truth: he wanted to be used. Sherlock wanted to use him. Sometimes, when it was convenient, Sherlock would use other people. That was all right.

John wanted to be used. He wanted to feel Sherlock's prick in him, fucking his mouth, fucking his arse. He was greedy for it. Pig. That same deep complicated shudder overcame him, all the stronger for not being able to move. Pig. Sherlock always knew the right words.

At some point, he realised he couldn't hold his piss in any longer, and realised why Sherlock had spread newspaper under him, and let go, emptying his bladder. 

When the door opened, he realised Sherlock was back early. Sherlock didn't greet him. He came over to the table beside the stand, and there was another click. The alarm was off. Sherlock released the clips that held him to the stand, and helped John up, with impersonal hands. Sherlock looked relaxed and satisfied.

"Do you want me to brand you, John?"

John swallowed, almost not words left in him. "Yes," he got out. "Yes, yes."

"Good pig," said Sherlock. 

But Sherlock never did. He and John were kept very busy for a few weeks on a succession of cases, and when Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's and left John alone, John's hide was still unmarked.

Harry helped, and Clara helped, and his therapist helped, and Mrs Hudson kept saying John should find someone else, and eventually, John did. Mary said she knew John had loved Sherlock, and John never told her that Sherlock didn't do relationships: no one except Mycroft, perhaps, would have understood how John had been used.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, there won't be a sequel. (But if you want to write one, feel free.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [here again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473782) by [Dee_Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry)




End file.
